


Falling Hard

by Redisaid



Series: Falling [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Jaina has age appropriate coping skills, Pre-Third War but like, Secret Relationship, Sorry about all the canon in here, Stream of Consciousness, This time it's Sylvanas headcanons, a little smut, but not really, choo choo here comes the feels train, everything is fine, just technically, which means they are not good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redisaid/pseuds/Redisaid
Summary: The world is beginning to change. The air is growing rotten. Something is in the wind, something new and terrible. Something that Jaina is not prepared to deal with quite yet. Something that even Sylvanas can't protect her from.





	Falling Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friendo, if you're reading this series to enjoy a healthy dose of fluff, you might want to consider it over for you as of this note. It's been a fun ride, but it's time these ladies dealt with some conflict. I don't want to disappoint or mislead you, so please, just know that there is a rough road ahead. <3

“Jaina!”

A pair of blue eyes again, burning into her. Wait. These were a different blue. Silvery and glowing, almost the color of good steel. 

“Jaina please!”

She shook, both from her own tears and the owner of those eyes shaking her. A bit of recognition followed. She tried to open her mouth. It felt like it was filled with glue. 

“Jaina! You have to tell me what’s wrong!”

How could she explain? How could she speak of how her world had changed completely over the course of the last few hours? How could she mourn everything that was lost? Not just literally either. There was no way to express how it felt to watch the last bit of innocence ripped away from her. She couldn’t possibly make anyone understand how it felt to be so certain of something in one moment, and to be so wrong about it in the next.

She managed to pry open her lips. Tears immediately streaked past them, dripping from her cheeks. The taste of salt pervaded the ragged breath she took in. “He killed them all,” was all she could manage to say.

And he had. Every single man, woman, and child in Stratholme was dead. She’d followed the smoke trails back to the city, hoping to find literally anything except what she did. There were only bodies, and very few of them were actually those of the undead. 

She’d wandered for some time. Her feet followed their own path, taking her to places she once knew. A candy shop, where Arthas would take her sometimes. It was a favorite of his, back when they were children together. 

The first time he brought her there, she was only nine years old. She’d just come from Kul Tiras, from the harbor just outside the city. Her mother had sailed away that day, leaving her in the care of King Terenas. A ward. That’s what she was--someone else’s problem. 

It was already terrible. The wizard that was assigned to teach her magic was mean. The nurse that attended her was already tsking over her accent and telling her she didn't know how to behave like a proper young lady. The food was strange. The air smelled different, even. She had hated it there.

But Arthas didn’t seem to mind any of that. He was just happy to have someone new to play with. He brought her to that shop and bought her a huge bag of sweets. He made a point of doing it again and again. Whenever she was sad or missing home again, he would take her to Stratholme, to that candy shop.

The shop was nothing more than a burnt out husk now. What once smelled of warm sugar was now replaced by the distinct scent of scorched flesh and the first hints of cloying rot. Jaina couldn't bring herself to think of the nice old couple who ran the place. She'd known their names even. She didn't--no, she couldn't bring herself to think of them. If she let those names register in her mind, this would all be far too real, far too personal.

And it already was 

Sylvanas shook her again. She stood proud and tall in a set of armor Jaina hadn't seen before--a simplistic version of her Ranger General regalia, in silver and a deep turquoise. Maybe it was battle armor? 

“Who killed whom?” Sylvanas asked. “Are you hurt? Did whoever do this hurt you?”

She pushed Jaina back a bit, trying to look her over and check for wounds.

Jaina wasn't injured. She had walked away, but it was the worst thing she had ever done, and the only thing she could do. 

How could she explain?

“I didn’t think he was going to...I don’t know what I thought,” Jaina said, finding the inside of her mouth too wet and too sticky to form the words properly. She said them anyway.

“Jaina, you have to tell me,” Sylvanas pleaded with her, taking her back into her arms as she couldn’t seem to find any injuries.

Jaina took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of leather and leaves--of ancient pines and a hint of perfume made from sweet flowers--of sweat and metal and earth. Sylvanas was here. She’d come when Jaina had called. Her arms were warm and strong as they held her in. 

That, at least, was something she still had to call her own.

“Arthas,” Jaina breathed against Sylvanas’ shoulder. “Arthas killed everyone in Stratholme. They were infected with the plague. It turns people into the undead. A necromancer--I can explain that part later. But he didn’t listen. He just...he just killed them all. He didn’t want to try another way. Tides. His eyes, Sylvanas. You should have seen his eyes.”

“Why?” was all Sylvanas could ask. She drew Jaina in tighter.

“I don’t know. He just decided and the men followed him. Well, some of them did. A lot of them left with me and Uther,” Jaina tried to explain. 

She wished dearly that she knew the answer to that question. She wished she could explain Arthas’ actions. Even cold logic wouldn't deem them right. The logical course would have been to weigh the options, not to doom the town to its gruesome fate right then and there.

“You didn't help him then?” Sylvanas asked.

“No. I couldn't. Even if the whole town was infected, they were still people. This wasn't their fault. They deserved a chance to be saved, even if it was a slim one,” Jaina told her.

“You are too good for this world, do you know that?” Sylvanas nearly whispered against the hood of her cloak. “But you did the right thing, not joining him. Even if the town was never going to be saved, that wasn't his choice to make. This will stain him all of his life.”

“I know,” Jaina said through a fresh set of tears. “I knew. I mean...he tried to convince us. I just felt like...I should have been--”

“No,” Sylvanas stopped her. “You have to trust your heart. I'm so glad you did, but please, don’t ever stop doing that. Where are you now?”

“I'm here?” Jaina asked back.

Sylvanas nudged her back again so she could see Jaina's face. She still kept a tight hold on Jaina's arms. “Before you were here. Were you somewhere safe?” 

Not really. She was still in front of the candy shop. Jaina could still hear the boots on the cobblestones as she watched what remained of Arthas’ forces file out of the city. They marched across the square from her, heads low. No trumpets to proclaim their victory. No jokes or laughter. 

She had known these men. She'd traveled with them for a few weeks now. There was Sergeant Davis, who loved to assault her with the worst puns she had ever heard. He would spend all day thinking of terrible new ones to tell her over dinner at their camp. Beside him was a young man, Private Rawlins, who screamed like a little girl the first time he witnessed Jaina summoning Sponge to help her in battle. His comrades teased him endlessly about it, even though they all gave the elemental a cautious eye every time Jaina brought him forth. She had instead taken the time to try to educate the man on the nature of water elementals, privately of course.

They wouldn't look at her now, or even at the burning city around them. 

Only one head was still held high in that line, and it turned to find her. Arthas’ armor was so spattered with gore that it was hardly recognizable. A mixture of drying blood and an odd green ichor almost entirely covered his Lordearon blues and royal golds. It was fitting, somehow, that he appeared to be more of a heavily armored butcher than a prince. Only his eyes were still blue, though they caught hers in a stare so intense and so unlike him that even that blue seemed unfamiliar. He fell out of line and stood across the square from her.

“This is your last chance to reconsider, Jaina,” he called out to her. “Mal'Ganis escaped. I am taking the fleet out of the nearby harbor to Northrend to pursue him. Join me.”

No pleases, no royal airs or graces. It was more of a command than a request, really.

Jaina remembered another version of Arthas, standing in that same place. A little blonde boy, who promised her so much as he beckoned her to follow him. He spoke of all the adventures they would have together, of his wonderful world of kind-hearted and strong paladins, of mysterious sorcerers, and of ancient kingdoms to be explored. She remembered feeling safe with him--feeling that she could find a home in this strange place, so long as it was at his side. Back then, she ran to him.

And now, she would run from him, “After this? Arthas...I can't. You have to know this is a fool’s errand. Let him go. Stay here and help us find a way to cure this plague.”

“Let me know how it feels then, to be on the wrong side of history. When the people sing of how Lordaeron was saved, your name won't be a part of that song. Farewell, Jaina,” was all that he said as he turned away.

She had walked away again. A second time. She walked for a while longer, amongst empty, burning streets. She thought about dousing the fires, but there was no point. No need to save a house when it was home to nothing and no one. 

She found a quiet street. The flames hadn't reached it yet. She pulled her necklace out of a pocket. She'd hid it there all these weeks, rather than wearing it. She thumbed the golden feather. She didn't think about the teleportation charm, or the contact one she had just added to the back. At least, not until she saw them. All alone on that quiet street, they almost looked like they were sleeping. A little girl and a little boy, still hand in hand, their blonde hair mingling as they lay dead in the street.

Only then did she call for Sylvanas. Only then did it become too much.

“I was in the city, in Stratholme, or what is left of it. I wanted to see...I don't know what I expected, but it…” Jaina tried to explain to Sylvanas. “There's nothing left there that can hurt me.”

“And you are certain there are no survivors?” Sylvanas asked.

“He wouldn't have left any,” Jaina said with an absolute certainty she hated to have.

Sylvanas wrapped Jaina in her arms again. Jaina clung to her as if she were drowning. She didn't care how the cold metal of the elf's armor bit into the skin of her hands. She only wanted her. Leather and forest, strength and warmth. The only thing left of her life that made sense anymore.

“I can’t stay,” was whispered almost mournfully against her cheek. 

So no, Jaina couldn't even have that. 

“I wish I could help. I don't know how I would, but I can't. I have to go back. I--”

“You don't have to explain,” Jaina stopped her. “You came when I needed you. That's all I can really ask. I'm...I'm going back to Dalaran after this. I have to go find Uther again, but I'll leave after that. When can I see you here again?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Sylvanas breathed against her. “I can make an excuse then. All day, I will be yours.”

Jaina could only respond by grasping tighter. One hand held a fistful of cloak, fine elven silk that she was probably ruining with her grip. The other kept hold of the angle of a breastplate, where it dipped and curved along her back. 

It was never enough. Never soon enough, never long enough. It never would be. 

“You did what you had to do. You did the right thing,” Sylvanas repeated. 

Jaina let go. “Then why does it feel like I should have done something more?” she asked as she stepped back. 

“Because you care,” Sylvanas told her. “You actually give a shit about what happens to the people of this world.” The kohl liner on her eyes was smudged in places. Wait...was she? No. Only then did Jaina see the knicks in her armor, the mud on her boots, the fresh bandage, still bloody on her upper arm. Her bow was still slung over her back, next to a half-empty quiver. She must have come straight from her own battle. 

“Sylvanas,” Jaina breathed. “Please go back. I...I'll be alright.”

\---

“Jaina! Jaina Proudmoore!”

“Lord Uther?”

She had been hoping that the children’s bodies wouldn’t be there when she returned. She wanted them to be a vision, a lesson, a sign. Something intangible. But no, they were still there, hand in hand.

She’d run from them, until she was near to the entrance of the city again. There she’d found a few of their men, those that hadn’t followed Arthas to the harbor, sorting through the bodies, lining them up to be identified, catalogued, and then burned. She watched them for a while, wanting to help, but not knowing what to offer. They didn’t ask anything of her, either. Most worked in a sort of stunned silence, following a protocol they knew well, but never expected to enact within the walls of a friendly city.

It was there that Uther found her.

“Ah,” the old paladin said as he caught up to her. “Jaina. I thought I might find you here. Where has he gone, girl? Where has Arthas taken the fleet?”

Uther was a good man. He really was, but he didn’t have time to care. He wouldn’t make time to scoop her up in his arms. He was no Sylvanas. 

She told him the truth, “He came to me before he left. I pleaded with him not to go. I told him it sounded like a trap.”

“Where?” Uther all but demanded.

She hesitated for a moment. If she told him, would he join Arthas? Would he go back to him, after all this? With all the death and destruction about him, would Uther forgive so easily?

No. That wasn’t why he was angry. Arthas had taken half of Lordaeron’s navy out of that port. That was why.

“Northrend. He’s gone to Northrend to hunt Mal’Ganis,” Jaina finally told him.

“Damn that boy,” Uther sighed, sounding resigned. He turned to walk away. “I’ve got to inform King Terenas. Don’t be too hard on yourself, girl. You had nothing to do with this...slaughter.”

It was the only kindness she would get from him.

She watched him go. Uther ran back to the gates of the city without looking back. A man of duty and honor. What was it like, to find enough strength in those things to ignore the rest?

A noise stirred behind her, something that wasn’t the cracking and popping of the flames that were still consuming the city and it’s dead, or the rain that tried listlessly to put them out. A softer sound, like the flapping of a great bird’s wing.

She turned just in time to watch feathers become cloth and skin. The prophet emerged from his raven form, just as she’d seen him do twice before now. Just as his lips were formed enough to speak, he said, “The dead in this land might lie still for the time being, but don’t be fooled. Your young prince will find only death in the cold north.”

“You!” Jaina nearly shouted at him.

She’d watched the man warn both Antonidas and Arthas. And now he’d come to her. Whoever he was, whatever his purpose was, he didn’t ever offer a real solution. He only told them to run, to flee across the sea. That was not possible. There had to be a cure for the plague. There had to be an end to all of this still.

“Arthas is only doing what he believes is right,” she told him. She knew now that she didn’t agree with it, but almost half the men did. Maybe the measures were that desperate, but it seemed like Arthas’ foolhardy plan to hunt the demon lord was far better concocted than this mage’s pleas for everyone to journey halfway across the world.

The prophet wasn’t stirred by her tone. His words were even and low. “Commendable as that may be, his passions will be his undoing. It falls to you know, young sorceress. You must lead your people west to the ancient lands of Kalimdor. Only there can you combat the shadow and save this world from the flame.”

And with only that, he began to melt down again. Inky black feathers formed out of every part of him, consuming him. The prophet left her, as everyone had.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Jaina found herself crying out after him as he flew into the sky. “You claim to know everything. Don’t speak in riddles. Tell us what to do! Tell me how to make this right!”

The prophet did not answer.

\---

“Jaina.”

She watched the snow fall on the peaks above them. It was only a matter of time before it would fall in the valleys too. Jaina's breath fogged in the chill of the air. She didn’t respond because she didn’t know what to say.

“Jaina. Talk to me,” Sylvanas pleaded from behind her. “Or at the very least, help me.”

She turned to find the elf climbing back onto the roof of the cabin. Even clad in a heavy jacket against the cold, Sylvanas was as nimble as ever. Unchanging. Constant. Frustratingly constant.

“You hardly need my help,” Jaina noted.

“You could pass me up those boards,” Sylvanas told her.

Jaina eyed the stack of rough-hewn lumber that Sylvanas was using to further strengthen and repair the roof of the cottage. It was almost second nature to her now just to call upon her magic to rectify the situation. She levitated the stack of boards up to the roof, gently setting them down next to Sylvanas, who looked between her and the wood questioningly. Her ears flicked oddly, jingling her golden leaf earring audibly enough for Jaina to hear down on the ground.

“Well, I guess that counts,” Sylvanas said as she slid one of the boards out of the stack and moved over to the patch of roof that needed fixing. “I suppose you could probably take care of this whole roof that way, but that would take all the fun out of it for me.”

“That looks an awful lot like manual labor, not fun,” Jaina shouted up at her.

“I like doing things with my own hands,” Sylvanas replied. She paused before asking, “No laugh from you at my dirty joke?”

“I appreciate you trying, but no,” Jaina answered.

She huddled further into the warmth of her enchanted cloak, pulling the hood over her head. She had considered burning the thing, along with anything else that she'd worn that day. The stench of death clung to her even then, two days and many baths later. But she couldn't do that to Modera's cloak. She'd cleansed it well enough now that she knew any smell she associated with it was imagined, but that didn't help her state of mind.

Jaina was trying. Everyone around her was forcing her to, anyway. They expected her to move on and put what had happened behind her. They expected that telling her she did the right thing was enough.

But they hadn't watched the world they knew crumble around them and fall into a puddle of death and decay. They were worried about the plague, of course, and the rash actions of Prince Arthas were the talk of Dalaran, yes, but no one had an answer for it all. No one could tell her why it happened, or why it had to happen all around her. They only told her she did the right thing by walking away--that it was the only thing she could do.

She still had her doubts.

Sylvanas didn’t pester as much as the rest had. She had been trying to get a smile out of Jaina all morning, or to get her to say or do anything, honestly. It was very sweet, and Jaina was trying. 

Sort of.

Up on the roof, Sylvanas started hammering away at the board, nailing it into a weak section of roof. As always, she sang as she worked. This time, softly, the sea shanty Jaina had taught her--her favorite one, about mermaids and sea serpents. She even went so far as to pound the nails in in time with the beat of the song.

“Waves be in ‘er favor, tides be timely now,” sounded strange with Sylvanas’ lilting accent, but she did her best.

“You’re always singing,” Jaina said, not quite to Sylvanas, more to the air around them. “No matter what you’re doing. No matter what’s happened.”

“Nothing wrong with a little music,” Sylvanas said, stopping in the middle of a verse. “If you were a ranger, you would agree. I’ve been marching to songs like these since I was a child. Your sea shanties aren’t so different from songs we use to drive game into a trap, or the harmonies we sing to make it seem like there’s more of us on patrol than there actually are.”

“I just don’t understand how you always feel like singing,” Jaina told her, finally looking back up at the roof.

Sylvanas grabbed a second board and began nailing it in next to the first one. “It’s not always songs like this. There are plenty of others you haven’t heard yet.”

“Sing one of those then,” Jaina requested.

The sounds of the hammer stopped altogether, no longer counting a beat. This one was too slow, anyway. Sylvanas’ voice immediately swept into a melody in a minor key, which meandered through Thalassian lyrics. Jaina understood some of them, while others seemed to be a poetic or archaic form of words she might have otherwise known. She recognized the common things--children, elves always used that word to refer to themselves, and the sun, of course. But there were other words in there that she wasn’t expecting--blood, enemies. 

Jaina had never heard a song about losing a war before. She had hoped a sad song might make her understand all of this, but no, it just reminded her of how she felt. 

The last note rang out long and mournfully from the roof above her, almost daring to echo through the valley. “That was my mother’s favorite. A very old song,” Sylvanas told her once the last of it’s ring was gone.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Jaina said. “Go back to the sea shanties.”

“I only know the one,” Sylvanas reminded her, learning over the edge of the roof to beam down at her, ears pricked up in askance. That smile spoke her demand, asking Jaina to teach her another, and of a hope for some progress. 

“Anything else then,” Jaina told her instead.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with only the sounds of a hammer and a few indistinct patterns of humming, but no more songs. No more mournful echoes of ancient struggles, only the fresh bruises of new hurts.

“Did you want to talk about it?” Sylvanas asked. It was evening now. The dark settled in quickly, bringing a bitter cold with it. Sylvanas was busy stoking the fire, but she turned to ask Jaina all the same.

“Talking about it is all I’ve been doing these last two days,” Jaina told her.

That much was true. People had been bombarding her for information ever since she returned. She was due to appear before King Terenas himself tomorrow to report on what she’d witnessed. Why he needed to hear it from her, she didn’t know. Uther had the same story to tell. What else was there to say to him, save that his son had lost himself there, in Stratholme, or maybe that the world had lost him instead?

But she’d told the story countless times already--between Archmages and generals and dignitaries alike. She knew that Sylvanas had probably received her own report of the goings on, and knew exactly what had happened on an objective end of it.

But no, Jaina did not want to talk about it. She didn’t want it to happen. She didn’t want to keep reliving it. She had no choice elsewhere, but not here. Here was a place that she felt good, where she felt safe. It would stay that way.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Sylvanas said, turning back to the fire after the silence stretched on too long.

Sylvanas cooked for them. She talked enough for both of them. She avoided the subjects of the plague and of Stratholme. No talk of death or flames. No, she spoke about the honeyed bread she brought with her, and about how it would be too difficult to hunt in Alterac once the snows came. How she would miss it. How she had grown fond of exploring these mountain trails, even if it was far too cold for her liking now.

“You can talk to me,” Sylvanas told her, some hours later. The fire still crackled in the hearth. Their dinner dishes were long since cleared away. Half of the loaf of honeyed bread was wrapped in a cloth on the table, waiting to be made into toast the following morning. 

Jaina lay with her head on Sylvanas’ chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. She didn’t say anything in response, but didn’t bother to try to close her eyes and pretend to sleep. Sylvanas wasn’t a fool. She would know.

“I should have stayed,” Sylvanas said, snaking her fingers through Jaina’s hair. “I shouldn’t have let you go back there.”

“You couldn’t,” Jaina reminded her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the state you were in. You were in the middle of a fight.”

“At the end of it, actually,” Sylvanas confessed. “I could have slipped away, had one my officers cover for me. They wouldn’t demand an explanation.”

“Don’t lie,” Jaina demanded. “It’s better if you just...tell me the truth. Be honest.”

“That is honest,” Sylvanas said with a deep breath that lifted Jaina up a good few inches, then back down again with a sigh. “I could have, and should have, kept you away from all that.”

“But you can’t always protect me. I was doing great until then,” Jaina informed her. “You would have been proud. I didn’t hesitate at all. I fought.”

“I know you did,” Sylvanas said. “And I found that ogre out in the spring. You know you’re very capable, but not very sneaky. It’s no matter, though. I’m proud of you.”

Jaina rolled off of her to face the wall instead. “You shouldn’t be.”

Sylvanas didn’t say anything. She neither indulged her worries, nor cautioned her against them. But she was there. She was still awake, or at least her breathing didn’t slow, even as Jaina lay with her back turned to her for quite a while. She only reached out and kept a steady hand on Jaina’s back, still and warm against her spine, just to let her know she was still there.

Jaina only felt a little guilty about it. She distracted herself by thumbing at the pendant on her neck, a welcome weight that had been restored to it since she’d come back to Dalaran. She traced the curving form of the gold feather, lingering over the delicately rendered barbs and the ridges they formed in the gold. 

She broke the silence. “Someone told me that elves make their tokens themselves. I never got around to asking you about it. Is that true?” 

That prompted a little laugh from Sylvanas. “Yes, it is.”

Jaina lifted the chain up to admire the pendant yet again. “You made this yourself then?”

“It took me many, many tries to get something I was happy with,” Sylvanas told her. “It was very clear to me after that that I would make a terrible jeweler. Clearly, I chose the right profession in being anything but that.”

“It’s beautiful, though,” Jaina said. Even in the dim light of the fading fire, she could still trace the life-like curve of the feather, as if the wind was about to take it and sweep it away. 

“You might not say that if you saw all the attempts that came before,” Sylvanas noted. Her hand finally moved, tracing the lazy circles on Jaina’s back that it was naturally drawn to do. “But I suppose if you like it, then it was worth the effort.”

“You didn’t make it just for me, though,” Jaina wondered aloud.

“No,” Sylvanas answered. “How can I describe this? I guess it’s a representation of myself, really. People should be able to guess whose it is, should they notice it.”

Jaina finally flipped over to face her. “Why the feather then?” 

Sylvanas’ hand met hers as it cupped the pendant. She held the tip of the feather with two fingers, admiring her own handiwork. “Ever since I was small, feathers were in my future. I saw them on my mother’s armor. Only officers are allowed to have them. The Ranger General wears the most, of course. I wanted all the feathers I could have.”

“A girl might easily take that the wrong way,” Jaina chided her. “Just another feather for you, eh?”

“No, no,” Sylvanas said with a laugh. “Never. It was just...something that was very important to me, back then. I wanted it to define me. I didn’t think about what that really meant.”

There was wisdom in those words--wisdom that Jaina wasn’t quite ready to process. She didn’t like this feeling. She didn’t want to be this way. She didn’t want to waste a day with Sylvanas steeped in gloom, lost in her thoughts. This was supposed to be a good place, where her troubles didn’t follow her. 

A place where she could forget. 

She pressed herself into Sylvanas’ arms, which wasn’t all that hard to do on the small bed. She leaned in and kissed her hungrily, too fast and too hard. To her credit, the elf responded with only gentleness. She kissed back softly. No tongue, no teeth, no want, no expectation. 

Jaina grunted her frustration against Sylvanas’ lips. She responded only by taking her into her arms and holding her there. Jaina tried to inch a hand under Sylvanas’ shirt, but was caught by a firm grip on her wrist.

“No,” Sylvanas said, just as firmly as she held. “Whatever hollowness you feel right now, none of this will fill it. Trust me. You will only feel more empty. I’m not going to be the cause of that. Not for you, not for anyone.”

“What will then?” Jaina asked her, finding that her words came out in an almost growl that she was not expecting to hear.

“Time. Only time,” was Sylvanas’ answer. She only held her tighter, even as Jaina rolled away to face the wall again.

\---

That was one thing that hadn’t changed. When she called upon the arcane, it came so easily to her, so readily. The magic still felt the same as it crackled through her fingertips, waiting to be formed, commanded, shaped and molded. 

Controlled, actually. That was the better word. 

If anything, it came even faster now, as if the power itself was eager to be used. Perhaps it was. 

Jaina let the cool feeling wash over her, calm and steady and strong. Not unlike the ebb and flow of the tides. It used to make her homesick. Now that feeling was more of a home to her than the shores of Kul Tiras were. 

She channeled it into a projectile, the air around her crisping with the promise of winter as the formless magic became frost. This had always been easiest for her. Her teachers assumed it was due to her affinity to the water. Jaina couldn’t be sure. Fire and pure arcane were hers to command to, but there was just something about the way the magic wanted to go that told her to make it cold. Hard, but flowing. Crystalized.

She flung the frostbolt with a wave of her hand, feeling the magic snap out of her control and into the wild as it soared through the air. The frostbolt impacted the training dummy with a shattering crack, enough that the wood of it’s outstretched art splintered violently, before the limb sagged to the side and ultimately ripped free and fell to the ground.

Jaina couldn’t let the dummy go around being uneven. She quickly summoned a barrage of ice lances and took out the other arm. 

The head was another matter. Jaina had plans for that. She channeled even more energy, summoning it until her arms were numb with cold. She formed it differently this time, shaping it into tiny shards of jagged ice--each as sharp and as deadly as a dagger. Each crafted as lovingly as if she smithed them from raw iron. She held onto the power for as long as she dared, shaping the spell into exactly what she wanted, exactly what she needed.

Jaina unleashed the flurry of ice at the unsuspecting dummy. She watched as the shards ripped through the sackcloth of the dummy’s head, tearing it to shreds in a matter of moments. Straw exploded over the training grounds as the cloth lost hold of its contents--rendering it a scene of mock gore.

Still, it wasn’t enough. 

Every time the power left her, every time she let it go, she only felt its absence. Sylvanas had said it best. She felt hollow, as if there was nothing left inside of her except a void to be filled, then emptied again.

So of course, she summoned more power to her call. What else was she supposed to do?

Jaina formed it again into another shape. She pressed the arcane energy into itself again and again, then whispered the suggestion of frost into it. A great orb of energy spun to life, chilling the air around it, and swirling violently with the current of magic that spiraled it in on itself. Jaina held it there, watching it grow. She held it until she could feel a burning in her chest. She had nothing left. 

She let it go.

The orb spun out of her hands and into the entire line of dummies. They shattered on contact. Splinters and chunks of wood came to rest in the dirt, buried several inches deep. Straw caught on the cold winds she’d created, blowing everywhere. The debris was truly impressive. 

And she only felt emptier for it all. 

“Jaina.”

She turned to find Modera, watching with gentle concern written on every feature of her face.

“I thought I might find you here again,” the older mage noted. “I suppose that was you that left this place a mess the last time, wasn’t it.”

No. She was not having this conversation here. Not now. Not today. Not yet.

Yes, it had been weeks. But, no, she was not doing this.

“I’ll clean it up,” Jaina muttered. Breathing in to get enough air to form that sentence had been exhausting. She’d really overdone it. Good. It felt right to be spent. Exhaustion was different than emptiness. A welcome change.

“You’re not an apprentice anymore, Jaina. I can’t tell you what to do,” Modera reminded her. “I can only hope we’ve taught you enough sense to do the right thing.”

The right thing these days was working herself into a stupor. Jaina spent her days with research groups, studying the plague, trying to understand how it could be stopped. She spent her free time arguing with various Archmages and High Magisters that forbid the study of any necromancy to allow the research teams to access any texts on such that might have been hidden away. This was crucial, she would say. That was forbidden for good reason, they would tell her.

She spent her evenings here, in the little training arena near the foot of the Citadel. What was left of her that hadn’t been given over to other efforts was emptied here, until she was too tired to see straight. She’d then stagger up to her room, and sleep poorly, only to repeat the same process again, day after day.

Sometimes, she would go to the cabin instead. Sometimes, Sylvanas was there. Rarely, they talked. Rarely, they even kissed. But Sylvanas was right. She was always so fucking right. Even she wasn’t enough. 

Nothing was.

Their research made no progress. The old mages didn’t listen. Whatever sense of comfort she felt in Sylvanas’ insistently present arms was only temporary, snatched away from her again as the morning came and their respective duties called. 

“If you’re just here to scold me for making a mess of this place--” Jaina started.

“We both know better,” Modera stopped her. 

Jaina stared her down. The older mage was in her nightclothes, wrapped in a thick robe against the biting wind of autumn. So it was that late. “Then what?”

Modera answered by walking over to her. She reached for Jaina’s face. Jaina flinched back, but Modera was insistent. She caught a lock of Jaina’s hair, and held it in front of her. Strands of gold mixed with a few of shocking white. Just a few. 

Clearly a few too many for Modera’s liking. “I hope that we taught you that magic won’t solve all of your problems. In fact, it might cause you far more of them, if you keep doing this.” Modera made a show of tucking the white hair over Jaina’s ear before continuing, “The arcane isn’t a toy, Jaina. Nor is it a punching bag. I won’t claim to understand how you feel, but--”

“Then why lecture me?” Jaina protested, stepping back again, safely out of Modera’s reach. “I know what I’m doing. I’m very, very aware of that. I know I can’t keep it up, but I also know my limits. Give me that much respect, at least.”

“It’s out of respect for you that I would even say anything at all,” Modera told her. “We need you, Jaina. Moreso now than ever. I just want to help.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” The words came all too quickly and easily to her tongue. How many times had she said something like that in these last few weeks? 

Modera shook her head. “No, there isn’t. I know that. All I can do is tell you that you can ask anything of me that you need to, but it’s you that has to ask. I’m worried about you, Jaina, and I care a great deal for you, but I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

Jaina responded only by staring her down, waiting for her to say anything else. 

Modera sighed, then turned to go. “At least clean up after yourself,” was all she had left to offer.

Anger was better than emptiness too, she decided. So she would be angry with Modera. Angry with the old, stuffy leadership of Dalaran and the Kirin Tor. Angry with their hesitancy and their caution. Now was not the time for it. 

Jaina took stock of the destruction she’d wrought again. A mess of wood and waste. It would take forever to pick up, piece by piece. Luckily, she wouldn’t have to. She summoned the energy to her disposal yet again, trying to form the arcane to command it to bring the debris together into a pile. But she was tapped. She only felt the burn in her chest as the magic grasped at her life energies instead. Such a spell was too much to ask right now. 

She had just enough left in her to tug at a thread. Defeated, she plucked at a bond that felt like a little tether on her heart. She only needed enough power to access it. He did the rest.

Sponge formed at her feet, flowing into existence, spiraling up from the packed dirt of the practice grounds. The water elemental loomed large and protectively over her, ready for a fight. 

Instead, she gestured weakly to him, then the mess around them. “Sorry, but can you help?”

Sponge at least, had no mouth with which to criticize her or offer her unwanted advice. He only offered her one of his little nods, then went to work rounding up the remains of the training dummies.

\---

_Jaina. Please be here tomorrow. I miss you._

_\- S_

They never really used names in their notes. Whether it was part of some unspoken degree of secrecy that they kept about their time together, since no real caution was necessary in the cabin, or really just part of the fun, Jaina couldn’t say. It never seemed appropriate, one way or the other. 

So when she saw her name written in Sylvanas’ spidery lettering, it made it all the more serious. 

It had been two weeks now. Jaina didn’t have it in her to face more attempts to cheer her up. Sylvanas only seemed to want to provide a distraction. She sang songs and told stories and brought her odd elven delicacies to try. She held her close at night, but wouldn’t let her do anything more than that. She didn’t ask her to talk about anything, but she did smile all the more when Jaina responded to anything she did. 

And Jaina felt terrible every time she evoked one of those hopeful grins. Sylvanas didn’t ask for any of this. Jaina was supposed to be as much of an escape for her as she was for Jaina. She only felt like a burden now. 

But for Sylvanas, she would try a little harder.

She waited for her in the empty cabin. Snow had already begun to collect around it, weighing down the ancient pines that surrounded the ruined village, causing them to bend under the heavy coating of white that clung to their green. Their valley felt smaller, stifled and softened in the snow. Jaina might have felt nostalgic for the first night they spent there together, were her mind not wandering so much. Instead she just felt bad because she realized she hadn’t brought anything with her. Sylvanas had kept up their trend of bringing along little treats and useful things for the house. Jaina hadn’t brought anything lately. Not even herself, really.

A warbling sigh of relief let her know that Sylvanas was materializing just inside of doorway. Her shape outlined first, then filled in. She was dressed only in a simple set of leathers, lined with soft fur to chase away the cold. Clearly prepared to come to Alterac today. Clearly wanting it.

A bouquet of flowers took shape in her hands. They were strange in a way that Jaina only realized once they fully materialized along with her. They were made from brightly colored paper, folded, twisted, and cut into shapes resembling familiar blooms--mageroyal, peacebloom, sprigs of silverleaf--wildflowers that it would be too cold for now, even in the magically warmed lands of Quel’thalas. Each elegantly crafted, and perfect in its own way. 

“You’re here,” Sylvanas said as the last bit of her became solid.

“I read your note,” Jaina told her. She stood up from her seat on the edge of the bed and went to go over to Sylvanas, but the quick steps of the elf beat her to it. She was almost instantly wrapped in those strong, steady arms. 

For a while, they didn’t speak. Jaina just let herself be held. It was almost enough.

“I’ve decided something,” Sylvanas said against her temple.

“Mmm?” Jaina mumbled in askance.

Sylvanas didn’t answer right away. She pulled away, giving Jaina one of her little smiles as she did. She offered her the bouquet and waited until Jaina took it before she said, “I’ve decided you need to talk to me about what happened.”

“Sylvanas,” Jaina warned. 

“No, I’ve decided. You should know that I’m very stubborn, even worse than you. Once I make up my mind, I won’t be stopped,” Sylvanas told her. 

“I told you before, I don’t need--”

“You’ve told me that you’ve had to repeat the story over and over to so many people. Yes, you told me that,” Sylvanas said. She still had that damn smile on her face. “But I can guarantee that you haven’t actually talked about it with anyone. I’m clearly your best bet there. I can’t repeat anything you might say back to anyone. Remember, we’re just supposed to be distant acquaintances? But I can be here for you and then not anywhere else. I can understand.”

“I don’t want--”

“To relive it? To be awash in it? Jaina, I can see Stratholme in your eyes every time we meet. I can see it in the hunch of your shoulders, in the way you walk. It’s not going to just go away. You can’t ignore it. Please, just tell me what I can do,” Sylvanas went on. The smile dropped. The mask cracked. Her ears gave her away first, drooping just slightly at their tips. Only then did her mouth follow, corners drooping downward, drawing lines of concern on her the otherwise smooth skin of her face.

“I can’t believe you,” Jaina growled. The anger came back. It felt hot and volatile, like boiling water filling her veins. But something, anything. She latched onto it. “I thought you understood. I thought you said I just needed time.”

“Sometimes, time is not enough,” Sylvanas replied, her voice near a whisper in the face of Jaina’s increasing volume.

Now everyone was trying to tell her what to do. How to heal. How to live. How to continue. Couldn’t they just leave her alone? Couldn’t they just all go away? She felt betrayed. Sylvanas had been giving her space, too much space even. What had changed her mind?

“No. We’re not fucking doing this,” Jaina spat. She threw the paper flowers down and reached for her teleportation charm, then went to activate the rune that would take her back to Dalaran.

Sylvanas reached out and caught her wrist. She caught her eyes too. Her glowing glare spoke volumes where her words hadn’t quite gotten the message across. The teeth she bared spoke even louder. She held a little too tight. 

“You’re not running from me,” Sylvanas told her. “Not anymore.”

The elf reached up to her own neck and pulled a silver chain out from under her leathers. Her charm hung there, glowing a soft purple from its runes. It flared to life when Sylvanas gripped it and pressed her thumb against the return rune. But she still held tight to Jaina.

The magic pulled at them, just a little too weakly at first. It felt as if a current was trying to drag them out to sea, but their feet were firmly planted in the sand still. But like all currents, it grew stronger and wilder. It tugged and tugged, pulled and pushed, until it finally knocked them down. They tumbled, but Sylvanas didn’t let go. They were somewhere in-between, somewhere that wasn’t the cabin, or Dalaran, or Quel’thalas. Someplace dark and formless and terrifying. 

But then they were somewhere Jaina didn’t recognize. A dim room. Marble floors. Golden accents. Rich blue curtains. A pulsing thrum of arcane energy in the distance, washing its power all around them and into enchanted lamps, though most of them weren’t lit. Hints of furniture peeking out from the sheets that covered the various pieces, but no dust to speak of. 

“Where did you...how?” Jaina found herself asking when Sylvanas finally let her go.

Nervous laughter was her reply. “I didn’t think that would work. Welcome to my home, Windrunner Spire.”

Jaina looked around again, her eyes adjusting to the light. They were in what would have been a beautiful parlor, if it weren’t shuttered away and disused. Still, it was clean, but clear that no one had need of this room. 

“As you might be able to tell, I don’t keep the place fully staffed anymore. They’re only here once a week, though they keep trying to let me have them around more often. It feels silly, though, to have the place cleaned and kept up as if it were still necessary. So you don’t need to worry about being found here. At least not today,” Sylvanas said as she walked off and straightened the covering on one of the couches. 

“Why isn’t it necessary?” Jaina asked. Her voice both echoed through the room’s stone and dampened in the fabrics that covered all the other surfaces, giving it an eerie tone as it traveled through the stale air.

“It’s just me left,” Sylvanas told her. “No need to keep a grand house for just one person.”

Jaina didn’t know. She hadn’t asked. She knew somethings. She knew about Alleria. She knew about Lireesa, their mother. She knew Vereesa spent most of her time in Dalaran. 

She just assumed there were others. The Windrunners were a very prominent family. Surely, there had to be someone else. 

But no, she could smell it. She could feel the lack of life in the room, and the ones beyond it were no doubt the same. She could almost sense the echo of times past, that it hadn’t always been like this. Almost.

“If you don’t want to talk, then fine. Let me just show you something before you teleport your way out of here,” Sylvanas offered as she turned to face Jaina again. “Can I ask that much of you?”

Jaina found she could only nod. She didn’t feel right, somehow, letting her voice fill this chamber. It felt like she didn’t belong, like something was watching her that didn’t want her there. There was an oldness to this place, a creeping sense of ancient duty that added a thick layer of something to every breath, as the very air was heavy with it. 

She followed Sylvanas as she lead the way out. As soon as the door was opened, the rush of sea air hit Jaina like a rogue wave. Wind and salt replaced that heaviness, calling her out, beckoning. She all but ran to join Sylvanas on the precarious walkway that stretched over the shoreline below. The spire was nestled into the cliffside, and many more rooms and towers loomed above them, all clustered around a central tower, its blue roof topped by a great golden phoenix. 

She followed Sylvanas as the walkway spiraled upward, heading to another tower that hung from the cliff. The elf said nothing as she lead the way, letting the waves below them and the constant, but distant hum of the arcane be the only accompaniment to their steps. 

They reached another door, which she held open for Jaina. This tower was smaller than the one they’d come from. The door lead into a little reception room. The furniture there was uncovered, at least, but it still had that clinging, weighty emptiness to it. Four low chairs clustered around an elegant coffee table. A vase in the center of it was empty, all its delicate curves of glass seeming to welcome the presence of flowers, practically begging for them. Four hooks near the door, all of them bare. A wall-mounted bow rack with four spots, all of them empty. 

Sylvanas stepped into the room, then kept going toward a set of stairs that lead upward against one wall, curving into the next floor as they followed the rounded structure.

“Come,” she said.

Jaina hadn’t realized that she had hesitated. She found it hard to tear her eyes away from the empty chairs. She could almost hear the echo of laughter in this room. Old, but wonderful laughter. She went back to following with haste. 

As they rounded the tower, they came to another door. Sylvanas opened it, but did not enter, or usher Jaina in. She just started talking. “Lirath hated having the bottom floor, but he was the youngest. Those are the rules, you see. He was always trying to trade with Alleria. I don’t think she really cared where her room was, she just fought back on it to mess with him. Our poor little brother, three older sisters. What a nightmare we must have been for him.”

Jaina didn’t know Sylvanas had a brother. She’d never asked. She certainly didn’t know he was dead. 

But the room spoke volumes. Its curtains were shuttered against the light, but there was enough coming from the hall to outline the shapes of a young man’s room. A bed of spiraling elven style, framed in gold, with a robe still hanging from one of the bed posts. A messy scattering of books and scrolls on a desk, with it spiraling details matching the bed’s. On a table near the door, a set of pipes, and a harp hanging in a rack above it, its wood still polished and gleaming.

“He was mage, or he wanted to be,” Sylvanas went on. “He was taking his time starting his apprenticeship, though, and we let him. He was the baby of the family, so he could get away with whatever he wanted, but he didn’t try to do much. He loved to just play for us. Some of the songs I sing are his, but he didn’t get to write many of them.”

She shut the door, with a gentleness that almost made Jaina suspect that she was trying not to disturb someone that was sleeping in the room. Maybe she was. Maybe that’s what this weight was. 

“He died in the second war,” Sylvanas told her as she turned back to the stairs. “We weren’t expecting the orcs. We were foolish, thinking that our lands were so distant and so secretive that we needn’t worry about invasion. Lirath wasn’t a soldier. He was still so young. He was just out for a walk when they got him, just too far from home to call for help.”

She kept walking up the steps, and Jaina could do nothing but follow.

“I don’t think Vereesa would be happy about me showing you her room. It’s not like she uses it much,” Sylvanas told her as she gestured to the next door they passed. She kept climbing the stairs up and past its landing. “She says she doesn’t like staying here, that it feels like a tomb. I suppose that it does.”

They climbed another flight, to another door. 

“This is me, of course, but we’re not stopping here yet,” Sylvanas informed her. “Alleria resented me for a while after I was born. She liked to use my room for storage, for all her hunting trophies and gear, not for housing a needy little child.”

Sylvanas kept climbing. Jaina kept following.

Another landing. Another door. Sylvanas opened this one again, standing guard, but letting Jaina look in. “Alleria was much, much older than the rest of us. A common elven problem, really. It took me a great deal of my young life to convince her that having siblings was a good thing. But she loved us all fiercely, in her own way.”

That fierceness spoke in every aspect of the darkened room that Jaina could see. Racks of blades and bows, armor stands. Hints of nature everywhere. Curving vines shaped in gold accented everything, feathers too. Not that many feathers. Only a captain’s share. Enough for Alleria. But the whole thing had a wild look to it, from the great set of antlers hanging above the bed, to the lynx skin rug on the floor.

“She started this trend, of keeping the rooms the way they were. She did it for mother and father’s. She wouldn’t let anyone touch it at first. After a few years, I convinced her to let the servants at least keep it clean. For her...I had hoped it would be something for her to come back to. I’ve been hoping that for about twelve years now. It certainly doesn’t seem that long some days, but others, I can feel every hour of those twelve years.”

Sylvanas didn’t falter even as she gave voice to those feelings. She just shut the door, gently again, and started for the stairs again. 

“You know what happened to her at least. That’s pretty much common knowledge these days,” Sylvanas said.

Jaina followed her to another door and the top of the steps. Sylvanas opened it and held this one behind her. The rush of sea air welcomed Jaina yet again, but this time with a howling wind. They were several stories higher now, on a rooftop deck at the peak of this spire. The wind whipped at the cloak she had been wise enough to leave on, clouding her vision with flaps or purple fabric as the hood flew about her head. 

Sylvanas pointed to another tower across from them. It was completely dark. A beautiful garden stood in the chasm between the two, no less lovely, even though its blooms had receded with the chill of fall. 

“My parents’ room is in there. When they first moved me into this tower, I would always go on crying about how I missed them, how scary it was over here without them. But Alleria told me to grow up and that I was far too old for that already. Still, I didn’t do well, those first few nights. I must have kept her up with my crying. At least I did until she brought me up here and made us beds out of spare blankets for the night. She said we could see their room from here at least, and maybe that might make me feel safer,” Sylvanas recalled.

“My mother was Ranger General before me,” Sylvanas continued. “She had expected Alleria to take that mantle from her, but Alleria never wanted it. I guess you could say I was literally born for it, or at least that’s why I imagine they started having more children. They realized that there are no guarantees. But they would have loved me all the same, even if I also refused the call. They loved us all.”

Jaina moved to stand beside her. Something about the harsh wind felt right. It blew at the heaviness of this place, trying to wash it free. But it clung--it held tight to Windrunner Spire, to every beautiful alabaster tower, to every piece of golden trim, to every waving azure banner. A weight of loss, of grief that could not be shaken. Of an emptiness that was all too familiar to Jaina. How something like being hollow could be heavy, she didn’t know, but it was. She felt it here, as if the whole place was just an empty shell, with the raging wind whistling through it.

“Why did you show me this?” Jaina finally asked.

“So that you would believe that I can understand,” Sylvanas told her.

The elf turned to her. Tears were caught on the edges of her steel blue eyes, shining in their glow. She held out her arms.

And Jaina fell into them. And she cried. She finally cried. For the first time since that day, she cried. She cried loud and thick sobs. She didn’t care how ugly they sounded. She cried for herself. She cried for Arthas. She cried for the people of Stratholme. She cried for Sylvanas. She cried for the Windrunners. She just cried. 

Sylvanas held her all the same. Tears slipped down her face a few times, but she didn’t shake with them as Jaina did. She stood steady and warm in the wind. She held her and waited. She whispered encouragement into Jaina’s ear. Thalassian phrases, things like “It’s all right,” and some of their expressions, like “May peace calm your heart”.

But she didn’t let her go. She didn’t fight or argue or tell her how to feel. Not anymore. No, she’d just wanted Jaina to know that she understood--that she had her own void that still wasn’t anywhere near filled.

And Jaina was standing in it.

“I used to blame myself for them,” Sylvanas told her when she’d calmed a little. “I would go over how I would have saved each of them. How I could have done this or that differently. But I realized after a while that it was all nonsense. I couldn’t have known that Lirath was walking into an orc ambush. I couldn’t have told mother that the Amani would ally with their horde and strike so boldly. I couldn’t have told my father not to seek vengeance. I couldn’t have held Alleria back from going through the portal, no more than anyone else could have.”

“If I’d tried to stop Arthas, he would have had me strung up as a traitor,” Jaina breathed against the tear-wet leathers of Sylvanas’ shoulder. 

“Probably,” Sylvanas agreed. “He probably would have.”

“I’m just so...so angry with him,” Jaina told her. “But that’s not fair either. I’m angry at him for being something different than what I thought he was. But that’s on me, for thinking he would react in a different way.”

“No,” Sylvanas said. “Nothing about him is on you. I’ll tell you that with confidence, but I won’t be the one to tell you to just leave what happened behind. You will, eventually. Day by day. Little by little.”

Jaina finally loosened her grip on Sylvanas and lifted her head. She looked around again, feeling the wind drying her face as she watched it flutter at the various flags and banners, all the symbols of the mostly dead family. “How can you stand it here?” Jaina asked.

“Memories, mostly,” Sylvanas answered simply. “Come on, let’s get out of the wind.”

Jaina let herself be steered down the stairs. Sylvanas kept hold of one of her hands as she led them down past Alleria’s room, then to her own. She opened her door, and, much to Jaina’s relief, muttered a command to the lanterns within to turn on.

Diffused magelight painted the room from darkness into color. Sylvanas’ room was distinctly less wild and less cluttered than Alleria’s, but still clearly the home of a proud ranger. A grand four-post bed stood in the center, its frame alight with phoenix motifs and their golden feathers. Bow racks, of course, dotted the walls, holding weapons both formidable and simple looking and everywhere in-between. Jaina was certain that each probably served a different purpose or function, should she ever want to ask after it. The most foreign of all the the furnishings was a strange workbench off to one side, with many bins of colored feathers lining it. Oh, right, for fletching. She made her own arrows even? 

Tides, what didn’t she do for herself? Stubborn indeed.

Sylvanas didn’t say anything as she let go of Jaina’s hand. She just immediately shrugged out of her fur-trimmed jerkin, revealing a soft linen shirt beneath it. She threw the leather unceremoniously onto the top of a low dresser, then stepped out of her boots before flopping onto the bed. 

“This isn’t usually how I like to bring girls to my room, I promise,” she said as she sprawled out on top of the sheets, the familiar joking, sing-song tone of her voice returning as she did. “I honestly don’t sleep here that often, but to answer your question from before, it’s memories and a bit of obligation. I’m the head of the family now. This is my home, whether I like it or not.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jaina noted, taking the cue to take off her own shoes and cloak. She laid the cloak on the spare bit of dresser top, and left her shoes next to Sylvanas’ boots before coming to stand beside the bed.

“My people make everything beautiful. I suppose that’s just a drive we have. We try to cover everything up with lots of gold and elegance, but we’re just as bad as everyone else at dealing with what’s underneath. I can promise you that,” Sylvanas told her.

Jaina stood still, not feeling like she had any right to be there at all. Even if she could understand the cloying weight of this place now, she still didn’t feel welcome there. 

Sylvanas had to remind her that she was by pulling her down onto the bed. 

Jaina quickly found herself wrapped again in strong arms, but now amidst fine elven silk. The room had some sort of warming enchantment on it, as it was suddenly the perfect temperature. Even the sheets themselves were just as warm as Sylvanas’ skin, and nearly as inviting. 

Somehow, in this strange room, where the ghosts of people she’d never known seemed to be all too close to real and all too disapproving, Jaina found that she wanted Sylvanas’ hands in her hair again. She wanted this quiet moment. She wanted her gentleness and her strength. She felt safer for it. She felt something, a stir of an emotion neither of them dared to name, but that constantly marked their combined presence. 

Somehow, it was enough this time.

Jaina leaned up to kiss her. Not hungrily. Not wanting. Not trying to cover up anything with gold or with lust. Just to kiss her. 

“I meant what I wrote,” Sylvanas told her. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Jaina could say.

“Don’t be,” Sylvanas said.

A bell nearly made Jaina jump out of her skin. She definitely rolled out of Sylvanas’ arms and was half-sitting, half-standing off the edge of the bed, arms moving into a casting position even as she realized what the sound was.

Sylvanas only laughed at her a little, to her credit. “I think I know who that is. Give me just a moment,” she begged as she rolled over and stood up herself.

“I thought you said you were alone here?” Jaina found herself whispering, as if that somehow mattered.

“I am, but the villagers don’t like to leave me alone. They’re even worse than I am, always pestering and checking in on me. How dare they?” Sylvanas joked as she straightened her shirt and combed through her hair a bit with her fingers. “Just hang tight up here and...um, be quiet if you can manage it? She’s got very sharp little ears, that one.”

“Who now?”

Sylvanas shook her head and held a finger to her lips as the bell rang again. She slipped out the door and started down the steps to the base of the tower.

She called down as she went, in Thalassian, “Hang on, I’m coming!”

Jaina’s new talent for eavesdropping was getting the better of her. She barely put any thought into it as she cast a muffling spell on herself and slunk out of the room and down the stairs with now silent steps. 

She stopped just after Lirath’s landing to find Sylvanas at the door smiling down at a little elven girl. If Jaina had to put a human age on her, it would be a small number, maybe six or seven. As far as elves went, she couldn’t be sure on just how many years old the child was. She beamed up at Sylvanas proudly as she held a covered basket out to her. They spoke in quick Thalassian, but Jaina was able to understand most of it.

“Tell your mother I am perfectly capable of feeding myself,” Sylvanas was saying. “But I’m grateful to her all the same.”

“It’s your favorite, though,” the child protested, swinging the basket at her again. “Venison pies! My brother shot the deer this morning. You would have been proud!”

“Tell him that I am. Was it a stag?” Sylvanas asked, getting down on one knee so she could take the basket and be more level with the child.

“Mhm. Big antlers too!” the girl reported.

“If he saves me some of that antler, let him know I’ll carve it for him. The boy should have something to celebrate his first stag,” Sylvanas told her.

“I’ll tell him, Lady Windrunner,” the girl replied with an overzealous nod.

Sylvanas reached out to ruffle her head of messy, windblown blonde hair. “I know you will. Thank you for bringing me dinner, Lythel.” 

“You’re very welcome, Lady Windrunner,” Lythel replied with a practiced little curtsy.

Sylvanas stood as the little girl turned to go, smiling after her as she said, “Be careful on your way home now. Don’t lose your footing on the cliffs.”

“I’m going to be a ranger like you, Lady Windrunner. My feet are already sure and steady!” Lythel promised as she ran off, demonstrating her confidence well as she tore down the walkway to the the tower, even though it hung precariously over the ocean. 

Sylvanas shut the door and turned to hoist the basket up in Jaina’s direction with a grin. “And now I don’t have have to raid the kitchens to feed us.”

Jaina dismissed the muffling spell and poked out of her hiding spot. “How did you know I was here?”

“You can’t leave well enough alone and don’t like doing as you’re told,” Sylvanas said as she stared back up the stairs.

“That’s fair, I suppose,” Jaina admitted.

They went back to Sylvanas’ room to eat the pies. Something about that table down on the foyer, even if it would have been a better, more practical place to have a meal, spoke that it needed to stay empty. Those four chairs were already filled, even if they were absent of bodies to sit in them. There was no room for Jaina there.

Like anything elven, the little pies from Lythel’s basket were delicately made and beyond comparison to anything else. Jaina had become slightly acquainted with elven food, having lived in Dalaran for a few years now and having had many treats that Sylvanas brought along with her on her visits. Still, even a simple pie was so different from what she expected. Instead of having a hard crust like those she was used to, these elven pies were light and flaky, and more like little envelopes of crispy pastry wrapped around seasoned chunks of venison. 

And of course, they were absolutely delicious.

Sylvanas served them with tea from a pot that boiled instantly at flick of a little lever. Jaina could recognize the signatures of the heating runes it used, and was impressed to see such complex spellwork shoved into such a mundane object. As if to remind her that this was Quel’thalas, Sylvanas somehow produced two elegant tea cups from a sideboard in her room, edged in gold, with golden handles. And this was just normal, everyday crockery, of course.

They ate on the bed, resting their tea cups on a night stand and using the cloth that covered the basket as a napkin. Every inch of propriety that Jaina had ever learned was appalled to be eating in bed, much less on fine silk sheets, but Sylvanas didn’t seem to care. She was back to laughing and joking and wiping away the bit of gravy that Jaina couldn’t manage to get off her own cheek. And Jaina was back, in part, to laughing with her. Not as easily as before. Not as eagerly either. But she could. She was trying.

But actually trying this time.

The sun might always warm Quel’thalas, but it had to set even here. They’d put the empty basket aside and Sylvanas was busy putting the tea set away. The windows began to darken, and Jaina asked, “Should I go back?”

Sylvanas looked her for a moment before answering, studying her. “You don’t have to.”

“Do you want me to?” Jaina asked.

The elf’s expression formed into a sort of weighted smile. “No. It’s...been nice, to have you here, to not be alone here.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Jaina said, reaching out for her hand and guiding her back to the bed. 

It started with just another gentle kiss. Then another. Then one more. They were warm and safe and soft. Sylvanas snapped to command the lights to turn off. Another kiss, then another. 

“I missed you too,” Jaina whispered against a long ear.

“I hoped so,” Sylvanas said as she kissed along her jaw.

Jaina wanted to say she was sorry again, but she decided it was better to show Sylvanas. She kissed along that sensitive ear, drawing forth a little shudder from the elf as it flicked away from Jaina’s lips. 

They’d danced this dance before, but they did so again with a new reverence, a new understanding. They took their time. They touched softly and slowly. They didn’t hurry. They didn’t manage to get Sylvanas’ shirt off, even, but that was fine.

Jaina was content to hike it up instead, to feel the warm skin against her own, to breath with her as their breaths became more ragged and more frequent. To relish the feel of her, and just to be with her. To be alive. To be present.

To touch her. To be touched. To be desired. 

And no, it didn’t fill the empty space in her heart. It didn’t solve anything. It didn’t give her any answers. 

But it made her feel closer to Sylvanas. It made both of them a little less alone. They were tangled up in each other, fingers and thighs alike pressed to one another. They breathed and kissed and touched and just connected. 

Jaina found herself smiling again as Sylvanas shuddered around her fingers, letting out a hushed moan as she hit her peak. A smile that was soon wiped from her face as Sylvanas regained control of her own hand. She worked Jaina up to her own climax shortly after, even as her body shook through its own aftershocks.

They lay together for a while afterward, foreheads pressed together, syncing their breathing together again. For once, there was nothing else left to be said.

It was enough. 

\---

If her research group noticed the change in Jaina, they didn’t say anything, but she did notice a few quick nods being sent her way that morning, and a few grateful sighs. It was better that they didn’t ask, though. She didn’t have to think of an excuse then, or anything else to tell them that wasn’t that she had a night of crying and gentle sex to thank for her improved disposition. 

Still, they worked. They read. They shared what they found. It was precious little. No one understood this magic. Necromancy was a forbidden topic, yet now they had to understand how to try to fight it. Was it possible to give the poor souls rest again once they were raised? Could the disease be cured? How could they best stop it’s spread? Half of northern Lordaeron was reporting infections now. More and more undead were shambling across the land day by day. The roads were no longer safe. Travel was undertaken only with extreme caution, or with a well-armed band of soldiers guarding whoever was foolish enough to travel in these times. The capital was flooding with refugees, who had nothing left to their names but the stories of watching loved once perish, only to rise again and attack their own villages.

And yet no word from Northrend. Nothing of Arthas and his quest for vengeance against Mal’Ganis, even as the kingdom he left behind was slowly rotting, slowly beginning to crumble and consume itself in the wake of this cursed disease.

Until today, that is.

Jaina went out to grab lunch for the group. She had a bag of sandwiches from a little pub in the Commerce Exchange that was kind enough to do a to go order for her so they didn’t have to stop working to eat. 

She noticed a gathering of purple-robed mages just outside the Citadel. She wouldn’t normally have stopped, but they were blocking most of the steps up to it. She needed to find a way around them.

Jaina stood on her toes, trying to see over the collection of elven and human heads that were all focused on someone in the center. A little runner, a messenger boy.

“Quiet down!” a man in front demanded. “Let him say it again. Go on, son, tell them again.”

“News of Prince Arthas’ expedition, sir! Their ships have been burned by the enemy! A dwarven gryphon rider was sent back to ask for aid! The men are stranded in Northrend, sir!” the boy shouted for all the crowd to hear. 

“It will take a month at least for a rescue ship to arrive,” Jaina heard a mage whisper.

“Three weeks if they’re lucky,” another responded. “If they don’t starve up in that wasteland first. Besides, the boy’s lost half the fleet already. King Terenas wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk the other half saving him, even if it’s his own son.”

“That’s what he gets, the bastard. Culling a city, then leaving us to catch our deaths,” yet another mage offered.

Jaina wanted to agree with them. That anger from before told her she should. But what could he have done, if he’d stayed? What could any of them do?

They just had to keep trying.


End file.
